Good Oil Page 13

  The train winds its way through Sydney heading west towards the Blue Mountains. We pass through Strathfield, Auburn, Granville, Parramatta, Westmead.

  At Blacktown, a girl gets on the train with a toddler. She looks only a bit older than me. Her hair is greasy, her skin covered in acne, she wears dirty polyester trackpants and there is a bruise on her left cheekbone. Her eyes are hard. The toddler sets up a shrill whine and thrashes around in his seat.

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Cody!’ the girl snarls. She fishes a large packet of Twisties out of her bag, opens them and gives them to the toddler. He sits quietly and eats them.

  As the train pulls out of Mt Druitt, we run parallel to a main road for a few hundred metres. I see a large sign pointing to a turn-off: Morton. Morton! I hear Chris’s voice saying, You don’t have to look very far to see difference.

  The toddler is whining again. His mum gets out a bottle of Coke and gives him a few sips. They get off the train somewhere called Emu Plains.

  For the rest of the journey I read my book and have conversations with Chris inside my head. These conversations have become a favourite, and pretty much compulsive, pastime. In them, I am always witty, sometimes even sassy. In them I have complete control.

  The train pulls in to Bathurst Station at about 11 a.m. The sky is low and grey. Even through the glass I can feel that it’s much colder than Sydney. I leap out onto the platform and see Lizey down the other end. There’s a bloke with her.

  We hurry towards each other and hug tightly, mumbling ‘hey’ into each other’s hair. It’s so good to see her and have her within my grasp. I don’t want the hug to end yet, but she breaks away.

  She looks essentially the same, but I scan for minute changes. Since moving away she’s gained an almost mythical status at home, especially with Jess. Jess goes crazy with delight when Lizey makes her flying visits. She pulls out all her toys, brings all her little friends in from the street to soak up the glory of the returning big sister, wants only Lizey to push her on the swing and watch her go down the slide. They bake biscuits together in the kitchen. She asks after Lizey all the time – often when I am reading her a story or doing some other ‘quality time’ activity.

  ‘“Naughty Spot. It’s dinner time—”’

  ‘Is Lizey coming over this weekend?’

  Why would Lizey be coming over this weekend?

  ‘No. “Where could he be? Is he out in the flower bed?”’

  ‘When is she coming over?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jess. But I’m here okay? I’m here.’

  And so forth.

  ‘This is my flatmate Jonno,’ says Lizey, turning to the guy who’s loped up behind her. ‘He’s got a car, so we won’t have to walk.’

  Jonno tips an imaginary hat with the top of an imaginary walking cane.

  ‘How come you’re both wearing the same outfit?’ I ask as we walk out into the car park. They’re both in jeans, Converse shoes and checked flannelette shirts.

  ‘Oh,’ says Lizey, laughing, ‘Big W had a sale on flannies. Nothing like a flannie to keep out the Bathurst chill.’

  ‘That’s right, ma’am,’ Jonno says.

  We pile into Jonno’s early eighties model Subaru two-door hatch.

  While we’re driving, Lizey tells me that they’re having 180 a party at their place tonight. I’d envisioned having her to myself, so I could debrief at length about our parents and tell her about Chris. Lizey is good with boys. She’s almost never without one. But a party could be good too. It will be good practice for Chris’s world.

  The ancient Subaru pulls up in front of a row of dilapidated terraces.

  ‘This is us.’ Lizey bounds out and puts her seat forward. I struggle out with my backpack.

  It turns out that the whole row of terraces is student housing. Lizey takes me out the back first and I see that there are no fences dividing the backyards. It’s just one big expanse of overgrown grass, dotted with clusters of upturned milk crates, a few Hills hoists and a couple of festy-looking barbecues.

  ‘One big family.’ She grins, gesturing to a few people lounging on neighbouring back steps, nursing coffee cups or with cigarettes dangling from their fingers.

  We head back inside to meet the other flatmates, Guy and Lucy, who are sitting at the kitchen table. They are both in pyjamas and dressing-gowns. Empty toast plates and mugs are in front of them. They smoke languorously, ashing their cigarettes into a round biscuit tin. Then we go upstairs to Lizey’s bedroom.

  She’s never been tidy like me. The bed is unmade, clothes are strewn everywhere and one of her old sarongs is serving as a curtain.

  I put my backpack down and shiver. ‘It’s freezing in here.’

  ‘It sure is,’ agrees Lizey. ‘I’ll lend you a flannie and a spencer.’

  ‘Hey, is that Jonno guy your boyfriend?’

  ‘Jonno? Nah. He kind of was for a while but . . . nah.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’ve actually got my eye on a boy from two doors up. Hoping to make some headway tonight.’

  We sit on her unmade bed. It has the same smell as her bed at home did. Essence of Lizey. Maybe that’s a weird thing to notice. I like the smell. It means my sister is close by.

  ‘So how are the parents?’ she asks.

  ‘Same old. Mum’s miserable most of the time. Jess is cute. Dad is . . . Dad.’

  Lizey’s flamboyance always seemed to lighten things up at home – even made Mum smile sometimes. Since she’s been gone there’s been little or no comic relief. God knows there’s none coming from me.

  ‘I think his show at Brooke Street is going well.’

  Lizey remains quiet.

  ‘Hey, I pashed a boy,’ I volunteer.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I pashed a boy.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Few months ago.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At a party.’

  ‘Well good for you! Who was the lucky guy?’

  ‘Uh, just some guy from work.’

  ‘Some Guy From Work. That’s beautiful, that is. And has anything come of it?’

  ‘Nah. He hasn’t spoken to me since.’

  ‘Tool.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Want me to see if I can hook something up for you tonight?’ she teases.

  ‘Nooooowah!’ I lie back on the pillows.

  ‘So with the party tonight . . . ’ ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’ll look after you as much as I can, but if the chance presents itself for me to have some quality time with Ben, you might have to look after yourself.’

  ‘Who’s Ben?’

  ‘The boy from two doors up.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You’ll definitely be sleeping in here, but don’t get freaked out if I don’t end up here.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I must look a bit deflated because Lizey pokes me in the arm.

  ‘Come on, you’re a big girl now.’

  I prickle. A big girl who got up in the pitch black this morning and sat on a train for four-and-a-half hours to spend some time with you, I think mutinously. So sue me if I don’t want to spend a night alone in a strange, freezing-cold house with people I don’t know! I hate it when she makes those comments – they are the adult version of her childhood taunt ‘Don’t be such a baby’.

  She looks out of her bedroom window from underneath the sarong, scanning the backyard below.

  ‘Let’s go and have a cuppa in the garden,’ she says abruptly.

  ‘It’s cold out there,’ I protest, but she is already halfway to the door.

  There’s one bathroom in the house and you have to go out the back door to get to it. After sampling the temperature in there and inspecting the shower recess, I’ve decided to wait until I get home tomorrow night to have a shower. It’s about 6 p.m. and I’m sitting on the bed watching Lizey put make-up on in front of her mirror. A sudden, aggressive loneliness takes hold of me. I’m nervous. I don’t know anyone coming to this party. It wi
ll probably go for hours. I want Lizey. I want my mother.

  ‘I miss you,’ I say, and start to cry.

  Lizey turns around.

  She re-caps the mascara wand she’s holding and sits down beside me.

  ‘What’s up? What?’

  But I don’t even know. ‘I just feel sad,’ I manage, and sob a few times.

  ‘Why?’ she says. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Everything. I wish you’d come home; I miss you. And I don’t want you to leave me tonight, ’cause I don’t know anyone here. And I wanted to talk to you tonight, not go to a party.’

  ‘Parties are fun, Amelia. I wanted to you to have fun here.’ She shakes her head at me. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

  My sobs have receded to mild sniffling and slightly laboured breathing.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say.

  ‘Nothing?’ she repeats.

  She returns to the mirror and uncaps the mascara.

  ‘When your face dries off I’ll put some of this on you.’

  The night passes more or less uneventfully. The party mainly takes place in the communal backyard, although it’s bloody freezing. I borrow one of Lizey’s ‘dress’ beanies. There are loud conversations going on all around about people and events I have no idea of. Some of Lizey’s friends chat to me a little. Dinner is bread and dip. Most people are drinking beer, but I fill a plastic schooner glass from a 4-litre cask of red wine set up on one of the upturned milk crates. By the time I have drunk half of it I feel decidedly less lonely.

  Lizey points the Ben boy out to me. He is wearing a soft-looking denim jacket, a grey woollen scarf and a beanie that’s more of a very large skull cap. He is very good-looking, and he knows it. I tend to be quite turned off by people who know that they are good-looking: like that dreadful Scott who’s been sitting with us at school, like Kathy. I think they’re best avoided. I’m lucky I will never be in the thrall of one of them. Although, I think, conjuring up the warmth of Chris’s presence, I’ve not escaped a different kind of thrall.

  I last until about 10 p.m., by which time I have consumed one-and-a-half schooners of the cask wine. I find Lizey in a small group of Ben and two other girls.

  ‘I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Yeah?’ She puts an arm around me.

  ‘Yeah. See you . . . ,’ I glance at Ben, ‘whenever . . .’

  I clean my teeth in the freezing bathroom with even-more-freezing water. The red goon has stained my tongue a grotesque shade of purple. I scrub at it with my toothbrush and spit out great gobs of purple toothpaste foam.

  Lizey’s bedroom is so cold that I almost can’t bear to remove my body-warmed clothing and put on my icy pyjamas. I’m tired and very fuzzy from the wine. I pull off my clothing as quickly as possible, suck in my breath, yank on my PJs, snap off the light and dive under the doona.

  Lying alone in the big bed and looking at the dark ceiling, a pang of hunger for Chris twists my insides.

  ‘Chris!’ I say loudly, as if he could hear me. And I cry again, allowing myself a much freer rein this time as there is no one about and no one can hear me. A wet patch collects on my pillow. I swap it for the other pillow. I think I sleep.

  My train gets in to Central at about 6 p.m. on Sunday. I am stiff, dirty and fantasising about a hot shower. Mum and Jess wait for me on the platform, holding hands. Mum wears her big dark overcoat, Jess her little blue parka with the fake-fur edging. Jess jumps up and down and then runs towards me. I scoop her up into my arms.

  ‘Nanna sent a special scarf for Teddy, because it’s winter,’ she says.

  ‘Excellent!’ I kiss both of her spongy little cheeks and plonk her back down.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Hi, darling,’ says Mum. And, uncharacteristically, we hug. It feels damn good.

  FRAYING ROPES

  When I walk in to the Land of Dreams on Tuesday afternoon, Chris is standing at the service desk, studying the roster and fastening his bow tie. My body immediately alters course, and I am at his side.

  ‘Hello there,’ I say. And I smile at him, not unlike how Maria smiles at Captain von Trapp in the gazebo.

  ‘Miss Hayes,’ he says, emphasising each word without varying his intonation. The Land of Dreams seems to quieten behind us. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  Chris is king of winning smiles and witty banter, but thus far there have been neither. There is a smile from him though – less brilliant than usual but more genuine. It nourishes me.

  A voice breaks through from somewhere above.

  ‘Are we going to our registers or are we standing around chatting?’

  Bianca. Always there to spoil a moment. I notice on the roster she has put Chris on register two, near her at the service desk, and me way up the other end on register sixteen.

  The shift drags without Chris on a nearby register to chat to. Between customers I gaze down the other end and watch Chris talking to Bianca and Ed.

  Four till nine is a five-hour shift. A school day is six-and-a-half hours. So the shifts are like another school day, minus lunch or recess, after an actual school day. At ten to nine, I see Ed and Chris conferring and looking at me. Then Ed walks up to register sixteen.

  ‘Hello, Amelia,’ he says, quite formally.

  ‘Hello, Ed,’ I say, following suit.

  ‘I’m, uh, having a birthday party on Sunday week.’ He fishes a slip of paper out of his pocket and gives it to me. ‘My parents are away. The plan is to head on back to my place straight from work on Sunday.’

  Chris can be seen holding up both his thumbs at me from register two.

  ‘Excellent. Thank you. I’ll be there. How old?’

  ‘Nineteen,’ he says. ‘I better go cash up.’ And he’s gone.

  ‘Sunday week,’ I tell Penny in maths the next day.

  ‘Isn’t that the night before the history assessment?’ she says.

  ‘Yeah, I think so. Hey, what do you think I should wear?’

  ‘Amelia, we both know what you are going to wear.’

  Earlier in the year, Lizey had lent me a skirt and top to wear to a friend’s sixteenth birthday party. Penny and I had gotten ready together at my place. At the last minute I changed back into my jeans and T-shirt and could not be dissuaded.

  The next bell will signal lunchtime. Lunch used to mean forty minutes of chatting with Penny. It now means thirty minutes of the Scott show, which plays a daily matinee to a willing audience. I decide to bring it up with Penny. Gently, though, ’cos she doesn’t respond well to out-and-out confrontation.

  ‘Why do you talk to that jerk Scott every day?’

  Whoops. Couldn’t help myself.

  She raises an eyebrow. That’s never a good sign.

  ‘He’s a tool,’ I continue. ‘He sits there day after day thinking, I am so The Man. And instead of telling him to piss off, you encourage him! Then he just loves himself even more.’

  ‘You’ve given this a lot of thought,’ observes Penny, looking away.

  ‘Well, yeah. And he’s so rude. Every day he comes to sit with you, and he has never, not once, said hello to me. None of them have.’

  ‘Well, gee, Amelia.’ She looks at me now. ‘Do you think that could have anything to do with the death stares you sit there and give out? They could kill a man at ten paces.’

  ‘They’re not men.’

  ‘You make it obvious that you think they’re totally beneath you; you sit there on your high horse sending filthy looks, or you bury your head in a book. Why would they say anything to you?’

  ‘They’re jerks.

  ’ ‘For God’s sake, they’re not that bad! And in case you haven’t noticed, for some of us they’re all that’s going. We don’t all measure boys against the Chris benchmark. No one else has a Chris. And I guarantee that if you weren’t so bent on comparing every boy in the world to your idol, you might relax about Scott and his friends.’

  I sulk. ‘You don’t like him, do you?’

  But Penny declines
to answer, making a show of continuing with her algebra. I glare down at mine and then out the window.

  ‘I’ll be late home from work on Sunday,’ I say to Mum. It’s about 5 p.m. and I am just home from Friday netball practice. Mum sits at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea and listening to ABC Classic FM. Two large, dirty frying pans are sitting on the sink. They are from last night’s dinner and Dad was supposed to wash them up. I glance at them nervously.

  ‘Oh?’ she says.

  ‘Bit of a birthday party for a guy from work.’

  ‘The one who gave you the flowers?’

  ‘What? No, someone else.’

  ‘Right.’ She sips her tea.

  ‘Don’t you want to know where it is and what time I’ll be back?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘You don’t care, do you? Where I go and what I do. I could be out doing drugs and having unprotected sex. I could be dealing drugs. I could be getting tattoos. I could be failing school. And you wouldn’t even know.’ I’m not quite sure where this is coming from or why. I never go off at Mum. I’m too scared of upsetting her. Further. But I seem to have her attention now.

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘you could be doing all those things.

  But I don’t think you are.’

  ‘Why? Why don’t you think that? I could so be doing them!’

  ‘Because I know you are a sensible girl.’

  No, I think, because you know I’m a loser with no social skills and no life, what possible trouble could I get into? I stomp upstairs to my room.

  My crankiness hasn’t abated an hour later. I sit in my room glowering at the ceiling. I know what this is about, I think. I’m cranky ’cause I’m uncomfortably thirsty for Chris all the bloody time. The heart-twingeing excitement of yester-month is gone. Now it just grates. There is no relief. There is nothing to be done. There is no sign of a parachute. I think of Penny’s comment from maths: ‘Not everyone has a Chris.’